Chapter 18

Great crimes, springing from high passions, grafted on high qualities, are the legitimate source of tragic poetry. But to make the extreme of littleness produce an effect like grandeur--to make the excess of frailty produce an effect like power--to heap up together all that is most unsubstantial, frivolous, vain, contemptible, and variable, till the worthlessness be lost in the magnitude, and a sense of the sublime spring from the very elements of littleness,--to do this, belonged only to Shakspeare that worker of miracles. Cleopatra is a brilliant antithesis, a compound of contradictions, of all that we most hate, with what we most admire. The whole character is the triumph of the external over the innate; and yet like one of her country's hieroglyphics, though she present at first view a splendid and perplexing anomaly, there is deep meaning and wondrous skill in the apparent enigma, when we come to analyze and decipher it. But how are we to arrive at the solution of this glorious riddle, whose dazzling complexity continually mocks and eludes us? What is most astonishing in the character of Cleopatra is its antithetical construction--its _consistent inconsistency_, if I may use such an expression--which renders it quite impossible to reduce it to any elementary principles. It will, perhaps, be found on the whole, that vanity and the love of power predominate; but I dare not say it _is_ so, for these qualities and a hundred others mingle into each other, and shift and change, and glance away, like the colors in a peacock's train.

In some others of Shakspeare's female characters, also remarkable for their complexity, (Portia and Juliet, for instance,) we are struck with the delightful sense of harmony in the midst of contrast, so that the idea of unity and simplicity of effect is produced in the midst of variety; but in Cleopatra it is the absence of unity and simplicity which strikes us; the impression is that of perpetual and irreconcilable contrast. The continual approximation of whatever is most opposite in character, in situation, in sentiment, would be fatiguing, were it not so perfectly natural: the woman herself would be distracting, if she were not so enchanting.

I have not the slightest doubt that Shakspeare's Cleopatra is the real historical Cleopatra--the "Rare Egyptian"--individualized and placed before us. Her mental accomplishments, her unequalled grace, her woman's wit and woman's wiles, her irresistible allurements, her starts of irregular grandeur, her bursts of ungovernable temper, her vivacity of imagination, her petulant caprice, her fickleness and her falsehood, her tenderness and her truth, her childish susceptibility to flattery, her magnificent spirit, her royal pride, the gorgeous eastern coloring of the character; all these contradictory elements has Shakspeare seized, mingled them in their extremes, and fused them into one brilliant impersonation of classical elegance, Oriental voluptuousness, and gipsy sorcery.

What better proof can we have of the individual truth of the character than the admission that Shakspeare's Cleopatra produces exactly the same effect on us that is recorded of the real Cleopatra? She dazzles our faculties, perplexes our judgment, bewilders and bewitches our fancy; from the beginning to the end of the drama, we are conscious of a kind of fascination against which our moral sense rebels, but from which there is no escape. The epithets applied to her perpetually by Antony and others confirm this impression: "enchanting queen!"--"witch"--"spell"--"great fairy"--"cockatrice"--"serpent of old Nile"--"thou grave charm!"[68] are only a few of them; and who does not know by heart the famous quotations in which this Egyptian Circe is described with all her infinite seductions?

Fie! wrangling queen! Whom every thing becomes--to chide, to laugh, To weep; whose every passion fully strives To make itself, in thee, fair and admired.

Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale Her infinite variety:-- For vilest things Become themselves in her.

And the pungent irony of Enobarbus has well exposed her feminine arts, when he says, on the occasion of Antony's intended departure,--

Cleopatra, catching but the least noise of this, dies instantly: I have seen her die twenty times upon far poorer moment.

ANTONY.

She is cunning past man's thought.

ENOBARBUS.

Alack, sir, no! her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters, sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report; this cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she makes a shower of rain as well as Jove.

The whole secret of her absolute dominion over the facile Antony may be found in one little speech:--

See where he is--who's with him--what he does-- (I did not send you.) If you find him sad, Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report That I am sudden sick! Quick! and return.

CHARMIAN.

Madam, methinks if you did love him dearly, You do not hold the method to enforce The like from him.

CLEOPATRA.

What should I do, I do not?

CHARMIAN.

In each thing give him way; cross him in nothing.

CLEOPATRA.

Thou teachest like a fool: the way to lose him.

CHARMIAN.

Tempt him not too far.

But Cleopatra is a mistress of her art, and knows better: and what a picture of her triumphant petulance, her imperious and imperial coquetry, is given in her own words!

That time--O times! I laugh'd him out of patience; and that night I laughed him into patience: and next morn, Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed; Then put my tires and mantles on, whilst I wore his sword, Philippan.

When Antony enters full of some serious purpose which he is about to impart, the woman's perverseness, and the tyrannical waywardness with which she taunts him and plays upon his temper, are admirably depicted.

I know, by that same eye, there's some good news. What says the married woman?[69] You may go; Would she had never given you leave to come! Let her not say, 'tis I that keep you here; I have no power upon you; hers you are.

ANTONY.

The gods best know--

CLEOPATRA.

O, never was there queen So mightily betray'd! Yet at the first, I saw the treasons planted.

ANTONY.

Cleopatra!

CLEOPATRA.

Why should I think you can be mine, and true, Though you in swearing shake the throned gods, Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness To be entangled with those mouth-made vows, Which break themselves in swearing!

ANTONY.

Most sweet queen!

CLEOPATRA.

Nay, pray you, seek no color for your going, But bid farewell, and go.

She recovers her dignity for a moment at the news of Fulvia's death, as if roused by a blow:--

Though age from folly could not give me freedom, It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die?

And then follows the artful mockery with which she tempts and provokes him, in order to discover whether he regrets his wife.

O most false love! Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see In Fulvia's death, how mine receiv'd shall be.

ANTONY.

Quarrel no more; but be prepared to know The purposes I bear: which are, or cease, As you shall give th' advice. Now, by the fire That quickens Nilus' shrine, I go from hence Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war, As thou affectest.

CLEOPATRA.

Cut my lace, Charmian, come--But let it be. I am quickly ill, and well. So Antony loves.

ANTONY.

My precious queen, forbear: And give true evidence to his love which stands An honorable trial.

CLEOPATRA.

So Fulvia told me. I pr'ythee turn aside, and weep for her: Then bid adieu to me, and say, the tears Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene Of excellent dissembling; and let it look Like perfect honor.

ANTONY.

You'll heat my blood--no more.

CLEOPATRA.

You can do better yet; but this is meetly.

ANTONY.

Now, by my sword--

CLEOPATRA.

And target--still he mends: But this is not the best. Look, pr'ythee, Charmian, How this Herculean Roman does become The carriage of his chafe!

This is, indeed, most "excellent dissembling;" but when she has fooled and chafed the Herculean Roman to the verge of danger, then comes that return of tenderness which secures the power she has tried to the utmost, and we have all the elegant, the poetical Cleopatra in her beautiful farewell.

Forgive me! Since my becomings kill me when they do not Eye well to you. Your honor calls you hence, Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly, And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword Sit laurell'd victory; and smooth success Be strew'd before your feet!

Finer still are the workings of her variable mind and lively imagination, after Antony's departure; her fond repining at his absence, her violent spirit, her right royal wilfulness and impatience, as if it were a wrong to her majesty, an insult to her sceptre, that there should exist in her despite such things as space and time; and high treason to her sovereign power, to dare to remember what she chooses to forget

Give me to drink mandragora, That I might sleep out this great gap of time My Antony is away.

O Charmian! Where think'st thou he is now? Stands he, or sits he, Or does he walk? or is he on his horse? O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony! Do bravely, horse! for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st? The demi-Atlas of this earth--the arm And burgonet of men. He's speaking now, Or murmuring, Where's my serpent of old Nile? For so he calls me. Met'st thou my posts?

ALEXAS.

Ay, madam, twenty several messengers: Why do you send so thick?

CLEOPATRA.

Who's born that day When I forget to send to Antony, Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian. Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian, Ever love Caesar so?

CHARMIAN.

O that brave Caesar!

CLEOPATRA.

Be chok'd with such another emphasis! Say, the brave Antony.

CHARMIAN.

The valiant Caesar!

CLEOPATRA.

By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth, If thou with Caesar paragon again My man of men!

CHARMIAN.

By your most gracious pardon, I sing but after you.

CLEOPATRA.

My salad days, When I was green in judgment, cold in blood, To say as I said then. But, come away-- Get me some ink and paper: he shall have every day A several greeting, or I'll unpeople Egypt.

We learn from Plutarch, that it was a favorite amusement with Antony and Cleopatra to ramble through the streets at night, and bandy ribald jests with the populace of Alexandria. From the same authority, we know that they were accustomed to live on the most familiar terms with their attendants and the companions of their revels. To these traits we must add, that with all her violence, perverseness, egotism, and caprice, Cleopatra mingled a capability for warm affections and kindly feeling, or rather what we should call in these days, a constitutional _good-nature_; and was lavishly generous to her favorites and dependents. These characteristics we find scattered through the play; they are not only faithfully rendered by Shakspeare, but he has made the finest use of them in his delineation of manners. Hence the occasional freedom of her women and her attendants, in the midst of their fears and flatteries, becomes most natural and consistent: hence, too, their devoted attachment and fidelity, proved even in death. But as illustrative of Cleopatra's disposition, perhaps the finest and most characteristic scene in the whole play, is that in which the messenger arrives from Rome with the tidings of Antony's marriage with Octavia. She perceives at once with quickness that all is not well, and she hastens to anticipate the worst, that she may have the pleasure of being disappointed. Her impatience to know what she fears to learn, the vivacity with which she gradually works herself up into a state of excitement, and at length into fury, is wrought out with a force of truth which makes us recoil.

CLEOPATRA.

Antony's dead! If thou say so, villain, thou kill'st thy mistress. But well and free, If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here My bluest veins to kiss; a hand that kings Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing.

MESSENGER.

First, madam, he is well.

CLEOPATRA.

Why, there's more gold. But, sirrah, mark! we use To say, the dead are well: bring it to that, The gold I give thee will I melt, and pour Down thy ill-uttering throat.

MESSENGER.

Good madam, hear me.

CLEOPATRA.

Well, go to, I will. But there's no goodness in thy face. If Antony Be free and healthful, why so tart a favor To trumpet such good tidings? If not well, Thou should'st come like a fury crown'd with snakes.

MESSENGER.

Wil't please you hear me?

CLEOPATRA.

I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak'st; Yet if thou say Antony lives, is well, Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him, I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail Rich pearls upon thee.

MESSENGER.

Madam, he's well.

CLEOPATRA.

Well said.

MESSENGER.

And friends with Caesar.

CLEOPATRA.

Thou art an honest man.

MESSENGER.

Caesar and he are greater friends than ever.

CLEOPATRA.

Make thee a fortune from me.

MESSENGER.

But yet, madam--

CLEOPATRA.

I do not like _but yet_--it does allay The good precedence. Fie upon _but yet_: _But yet_ is as a gaoler to bring forth Some monstrous malefactor. Pr'ythee, friend, Pour out thy pack of matter to mine ear, The good and bad together. He's friends with Caesar In state of health, thou say'st; and thou say'st free.

MESSENGER.

Free, madam! No: I made no such report, He's bound unto Octavia.

CLEOPATRA.

For what good turn?

MESSENGER.

Madam he's married to Octavia.

CLEOPATRA.

The most infectious pestilence upon thee! [_Strikes him down._

MESSENGER.

Good madam, patience.

CLEOPATRA.

What say you? [_Strikes him again._ Hence horrible villain! or I'll spurn thine eyes Like balls before me--I'll unhair thine head-- Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire, and stewed in brine Smarting in ling'ring pickle.

MESSENGER.

Gracious madam! I, that do bring the news, made not the match.

CLEOPATRA.

Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee, And make thy fortunes proud: the blow thou hadst Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage; And I will boot thee with what gift beside Thy modesty can beg.

MESSENGER.

He's married, madam.

CLEOPATRA.

Rogue, thou hast lived too long. [_Draws a dagger._

MESSENGER.

Nay then I'll run. What mean you, madam? I have made no fault. [_Exit._

CHARMIAN.

Good madam, keep yourself within yourself; The man is innocent.

CLEOPATRA.

Some innocents 'scape not the thunderbolt. Melt Egypt into Nile! and kindly creatures Turn all to serpents! Call the slave again; Though I am mad, I will not bite him--Call!

CHARMIAN.

He is afraid to come.

CLEOPATRA.

I will not hurt him. These hands do lack nobility, that they strike A meaner than myself.

* * * *

CLEOPATRA.

In praising Antony I have dispraised Caesar.

CHARMIAN.

Many times, madam.

CLEOPATRA.

I am paid for't now-- Lead me from hence. I faint. O Iras, Charmian--'tis no matter Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him Report the features of Octavia, her years, Her inclination--let him not leave out The color of her hair. Bring me word quickly. [_Exit Alex._

Let him forever go--let him not--Charmian, Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon, T'other way he's a Mars. Bid you Alexas [_To Mardian._

Bring me word how tall she is. Pity me, Charmian. But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber.

I have given this scene entire because I know nothing comparable to it The pride and arrogance of the Egyptian queen, the blandishment of the woman, the unexpected but natural transitions of temper and feeling, the contest of various passions, and at length--when the wild hurricane has spent its fury--the melting into tears, faintness, and languishment, are portrayed with the most astonishing power, and truth, and skill in feminine nature. More wonderful still is the splendor and force of coloring which is shed over this extraordinary scene. The mere idea of an angry woman beating her menial, presents something ridiculous or disgusting to the mind; in a queen or a tragedy heroine it is still more indecorous;[70] yet this scene is as far as possible from the vulgar or the comic. Cleopatra seems privileged to "touch the brink of all we hate" with impunity. This imperial termagant, this "wrangling queen, whom every thing becomes," becomes even her fury. We know not by what strange power it is, that in the midst of all these unruly passions and childish caprices, the poetry of the character, and the fanciful and sparkling grace of the delineation are sustained and still rule in the imagination; but we feel that it is so.

I need hardly observe, that we have historical authority for the excessive violence of Cleopatra's temper. Witness the story of her boxing the ears of her treasurer, in presence of Octavius, as related by Plutarch. Shakspeare has made a fine use of this anecdote also towards the conclusion of the drama, but it is not equal in power to this scene with the messenger.

The man is afterwards brought back, almost by force, to satisfy Cleopatra's jealous anxiety, by a description of Octavia:--but this time, made wise by experience, he takes care to adapt his information to the humors of his imperious mistress, and gives her a satirical picture of her rival. The scene which follows, in which Cleopatra--artful, acute, and penetrating as she is--becomes the dupe of her feminine spite and jealousy, nay, assists in duping herself; and after having cuffed the messenger for telling her truths which are offensive, rewards him for the falsehood which flatters her weakness--is not only an admirable exhibition of character, but a fine moral lesson.

She concludes, after dismissing the messenger with gold and thanks,

I repent me much That I so harry'd him. Why, methinks by him This creature's no such thing?

CHARMIAN.

O nothing, madam.

CLEOPATRA.

The man hath seen some majesty, and should know!

Do we not fancy Cleopatra drawing herself up with all the vain consciousness of rank and beauty as she pronounces this last line? and is not this the very woman who celebrated her own apotheosis,--who arrayed herself in the robe and diadem of the goddess Isis, and could find no titles magnificent enough for her children but those of _the Sun_ and _the Moon_?

The despotism and insolence of her temper are touched in some other places most admirably. Thus, when she is told that the Romans libel and abuse her, she exclaims,--

Sink Rome, and their tongues rot That speak against us!

And when one of her attendants observes, that "Herod of Jewry dared not look upon her but when she were well pleased," she immediately replies, "That Herod's head I'll have."[71]

When Proculeius surprises her in her monument, and snatches her poniard from her, terror, and fury, pride, passion, and disdain, swell in her haughty soul, and seem to shake her very being.

CLEOPATRA.

Where art thou, death? Come hither, come! come, come and take a queen Worth many babes and beggars!

PROCULEIUS.

O temperance, lady?

CLEOPATRA.

Sir, I will eat no meat; I'll not drink, sir: If idle talk will once be necessary. I'll not sleep neither; this mortal house I'll ruin, Do Caesar what he can! Know, sir, that I Will not wait pinion'd at your master's court, Nor once be chastis'd with the sober eye Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up, And show me to the shouting varletry Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt Be gentle grave to me! Rather on Nilus' mud Lay me stark naked, and let the water-flies Blow me into abhorring! Rather make My country's high pyramids my gibbet, And hang me up in chains!

In the same spirit of royal bravado, but finer still, and worked up with a truly Oriental exuberance of fancy and imagery, is her famous description of Antony, addressed to Dolabella:--

Most noble empress you have heard of me?

CLEOPATRA.

I cannot tell.

DOLABELLA.

Assuredly, you know me.

CLEOPATRA.

No matter, sir, what I have heard or known. You laugh when boys, or women, tell their dreams Is't not your trick?

DOLABELLA.

I understand not, madam.

CLEOPATRA.

I dream'd there was an emperor Antony; O such another sleep, that I might see But such another man!

DOLABELLA.

If it might please you--

CLEOPATRA.

His face was as the heavens; and therein stuck A sun and moon; which kept their course, and lighted The little O, the earth.

DOLABELLA.

Most sovereign creature--

CLEOPATRA.

His legs bestrid the ocean: his reared arm Crested the world; his voice was propertied As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends; But when he meant to quail or shake the orb He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty, There was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas, That grew the more by reaping. His delights Were dolphin like; they show'd his back above The element they liv'd in. In his livery[72] Walk'd crowns and coronets; realms and islands were As plates[73] dropp'd from his pocket.

DOLABELLA.

Cleopatra!

CLEOPATRA.

Think you there was, or might be, such a man As this I dream'd of?

DOLABELLA.

Gentle madam, no.

CLEOPATRA.

You lie,--up to the hearing of the gods!

There was no room left in this amazing picture for the display of that passionate maternal tenderness, which was a strong and redeeming feature in Cleopatra's historical character; but it is not left untouched, for when she is imprecating mischiefs on herself, she wishes, as the last and worst of possible evils, that "thunder may smite Caesarion!"

In representing the mutual passion of Antony and Cleopatra as real and fervent, Shakspeare has adhered to the truth of history as well as to general nature. On Antony's side it is a species of infatuation, a single and engrossing feeling: it is, in short, the love of a man declined in years for a woman very much younger than himself, and who has subjected him to every species of female enchantment. In Cleopatra the passion is of a mixed nature, made up of real attachment, combined with the love of pleasure, the love of power, and the love of self. Not only is the character most complicated, but no one sentiment could have existed pure and unvarying in such a mind as hers; her passion in itself is true, fixed to one centre; but like the pennon streaming from the mast, it flutters and veers with every breath of her variable temper: yet in the midst of all her caprices, follies, and even vices, womanly feeling is still predominant in Cleopatra: and the change which takes place in her deportment towards Antony, when their evil fortune darkens round them, is as beautiful and interesting in itself as it is striking and natural. Instead of the airy caprice and provoking petulance she displays in the first scenes, we have a mixture of tenderness, and artifice, and fear, and submissive blandishment. Her behavior, for instance, after the battle of Actium, when she quails before the noble and tender rebuke of her lover, is partly female subtlety and partly natural feeling.

CLEOPATRA.

O my lord, my lord, Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought You would have follow'd.

ANTONY.